Aravind Adiga - Last Man in Tower

‘For example,’ she had said, ‘you can give up eating brinjals. And each time you crave a brinjal, you’ll remember Purnima.’

Masterji thought about it. ‘I will give up my scooter.’

‘No no,’ she protested. ‘That’s extreme. Brinjals will do.’

Masterji relished the extreme: the scooter went.

A fifteen-minute walk later, the two old men reached their local market, a row of blue wooden stalls, lit by white tube-lights or naked yellow bulbs, in which the most disparate trades were conducted side by side: a chicken shop smelling of poultry shit and raw meat, a sugar cane-vendor’s stall haloed in raw sucrose, a Xerox machine in a stationery shop yawning flashes of blinding light, and a barber’s salon, busy even at this hour, stinking of shaving cream and gossip.

Mr Pinto finally summoned up the courage.

‘Masterji,’ he said, ‘why don’t you have yourself checked at Mahim Hinduja hospital? They do a full-body check-up.’

‘Checked? For what?’

‘It begins with D, Masterji.’

‘Nonsense. I have perfect control over my bowels. I have always had strong lower organs.’

Mr Pinto looked at his shoes and said: ‘Diabetes.’

‘Mr Pinto. I don’t drink much, don’t eat much, I don’t even have television. How can I get diabetes?’

‘You are losing your temper. The other night it happened with the modern girl’s boyfriend. Everyone in the Society has been talking. And you go to the toilet all the time. We hear it from below.’

‘How dare you, Mr Pinto. Spying on me. I’ll go to the bathroom when I want to. It is a free country.’

They walked back to Vishram in silence. Ram Khare, the guard, came running up to them: ‘Have you heard the news, sir?’

‘What news?’ Mr Pinto asked.

‘The Secretary is at Ajwani’s office now, sir — go there and hear the news for yourself,’ Khare said. ‘There’s gold for all of you! Gold!’

‘He’s drinking again,’ Mr Pinto whispered. They left the raving guard behind them and walked up the stairs.

The old accountant said: ‘Come to our room and have a small peg, Masterji.’

‘Not tonight, Mr Pinto.’

‘We have the Amaretto. Tony’s gift. Let’s have a peg. A peg each.’

Mr Pinto had a wonderful liqueur, brought by his son Tony on his most recent visit from America, and sipped only on treasured nights. Masterji understood that this was in the nature of an apology, and touched his friend’s shoulder, before walking up to his own flat.

Vakola at night: the red neon cross of St Antony’s church glows over the main road. Vendors of paani-puri bhelpuri, and gulab jamuns suspended in sugar syrup feed the tidal waves of tired humans coming in from the train station. Plastic watches, metal locks, toys for children, sandals and T-shirts punctuate the offerings of food.

Across the road, the lights are on at the Renaissance Real-Estate Agency.

Vakola is not a suburb where real-estate brokers become rich. At least four operate just along the main road. Of these, Renaissance is the most attractive; spacious, bright, its glass door painted with an image of Lord Krishna playing his flute in the magic gardens of Brindavan.

Inside, seated at his steel desk, Ramesh Ajwani, looked up from a copy of the real-estate pages of the Times of India . Mani, his assistant, had opened the glass door to allow a young woman to enter.

Ajwani removed his half-moon glasses, and motioned for the visitor to sit.

How nice , he thought, to find a young woman in this modern day who can wear a sari well.

A radiant sky-blue, cut perhaps a bit low.

Her English was better than his; he noted this with pleasure.

A two-bedroom for herself, a working woman, unmarried, with both parents living with her. One-year rental lease of the renewable nature. Range of Rs 15,000 to 20,000.

Ajwani, as was his habit, added 10 per cent to the upper range of the figure quoted, and thought at once of a set of places to show her. He put his hands on his table and leaned in to the woman.

‘You seem to think I am a broker, miss?’

Ajwani’s dark, pockmarked face was so unusual for his community that clients routinely mistook him for a South Indian — a good thing, he felt, because South Indians, unlike Sindhis, are known as an honest people. He was stocky, thick-necked, wore blue or cream safari suits, and smelled of Johnson’s Baby Powder.

The woman in the sky-blue sari recovered. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘I am not .’

Parallel engraved lines slanted high on Ajwani’s cheeks, like facial gills, adding a touch of menace to his grin.

‘I will not do what every other broker in this city does. I will not lie to you. Will not say a building is “virtually new” if it is forty years old; will not gloss over peculiarities in the neighbours, seepages and leakages in roof or walls. I believe in accurate information — for myself and for my clients. Please look at the wall. My three gods are up there.’

The young woman saw a full-length framed portrait of the Sai Baba and another one of the god Balaji in his 24-carat-gold costume at Tirupati.

‘The third one is my most important god. Do you know his name? Please take a closer look at him. Go to the wall, please.’

The woman in the blue sari did as she was told; in between the deities she saw a small printed list.

KNOW YOUR FACTS

One BHK (Bedroom Hall Kitchen)

Two BHK (Two Bedroom Hall Kitchen)

Three BHK (Three Bedroom Hall Kitchen)

Deposit: Multiple of rent — up to six months

‘Token’ Money — must be paid

NOC (No Objection Certificate, from Secretary of Society) — must be given

Police Clearance Certificate (from local station) — broker will obtain.

Passport-size photo (x2) — needed. Proof of Employment — a must

Carpet area; Built-up area; Super built-up area — know the difference

Leave-and-Licence Agreement: who pays for stamp paper? Decide first

Types of renters: Family, Single Bachelor, Company Bachelor, NRI, Foreign Passport — who are you?

Standing behind the broker, she noticed that his right foot, having slipped out of its slipper, was opening and closing the lowest drawer of his desk in a clear state of excitement.

‘Do you know the name of this god, miss? He is called “Information”. Make him your master too. Now, please sit down.’

Waiting for her to return to her seat, he turned a framed diptych of photographs around to her.

‘R and R, my two boys. Rajeev and Raghav. Just like me. R for Ramesh. Also my brokerage, R for Renaissance. And notice they are both wearing tae kwon-do outfits. Fitness is my fourth god.’

While the young lady admired the diptych, he leaned in.

‘Miss Swathi, this Ajwani of yours is neat, happy, ugly, crude, truthful, mongoose-faced.’ He emphasized each adjective with his hands, which were covered with cheap rings. ‘And these are his virtues.’

The girl tried hard to suppress the urge, then put her hand on her mouth, and succumbed. She shook with laughter; the broker beamed.

‘I also enjoy making people laugh. Especially young women. Their laughter is the sweet…’

Just then the glass door of the Renaissance Real-Estate Agency opened. Secretary Kothari walked in with another man — tall, dark, dressed like a salesman in a white shirt and black trousers.

‘What is it, Kothari?’ Ajwani asked. ‘I’m with a client.’

‘It’s urgent,’ the Secretary said.

Ajwani was talking to a young woman in a sky-blue sari that exposed her navel. Nothing could be more urgent right now.

‘We are looking for a two-bedroom for her parents and herself. I’ll come and see you in your office when we have finished our work, Kothari. And you, sir, I’m not interested in any more insurance, thank you very much.’